“I am not sorry,” said Winthrop.
“You will be,” returned the girl, “before the night is over.”
“On the contrary,” answered the man quietly, “I shall wait here to congratulate you—on your failure.”
“I shall not fail,” said the girl. Avoiding his eyes, she turned from him and, for a moment, stood gazing before her miserably. Her lips were trembling, her eyes moist with rising tears. Then she faced him, her head raised defiantly.
“I have been hounded out of every decent way of living,” she protested hysterically. “I can make thousands of dollars tonight,” she cried, “out of this one.”
Winthrop looked straight into her eyes. His own were pleading, full of tenderness and pity; so eloquent with meaning that those of the girl fell before them.
“That is no answer,” said the man. “You know it’s not. I tell you—you will fail.”
From the hall Judge Gaylor entered noisily. Instinctively the man and girl moved nearer together, and upon the intruder Winthrop turned angrily.
“Well?” he demanded sharply. “I thought you had finished your talk,” protested the Judge. “Mr. Hallowell is anxious to begin.”
Winthrop turned and looked at Vera steadily. For an instant the eyes of the girl faltered, and then she returned his glance with one as resolute as his own. As though accepting her verdict as final, Winthrop walked quickly to the door. “I shall be downstairs,” he said, “when this is over, let me know.”